On The Way Through The Love Of Our Neighbor

In the last week of June and the first week of July, I went back east to visit my family.  As a monk of the hermitage, I get to visit my family once a year.  However, due to the coronavirus, this visit was delayed.  I hadn't seen my parents in a couple years; it had been more than a couple years since I'd seen my sister, as well as my brother and sister-in-law with my niece and my nephew.  It was wonderful finally to see them again.  

The day I flew out of California, I met up with Karen and Maureen, former co-workers; we worked together when I was a attorney.  It was fun to catch up with them.  They both were raised Catholic, so they understand various aspects of life at the hermitage.  That day I took off from California, I also gladly got to see Susan and Aurora.  We lived together at the Catholic Worker House; they're still Catholic Workers.  

When I was planning the trip, it had seemed like a great idea to leave the hermitage early in the day so I could see friends I hadn't seen in years.  Finally when I was on the redeye flight from San Francisco to New York and was getting almost no sleep, I began to see the consequences of that itinerary.  Again on the subway from JFK to Penn Station, I kept nodding off, immediately waking up after a few seconds.  

Once I got into Penn Station, I happily got a cup of Blue Bottle Coffee.  I was also happy to pop into Magnolia Bakery and get a blueberry muffin.  With a little sustenance, I headed over to the Amtrak ticket counter.  I told the clerk I was booked on the 11:25 a.m. train to Albany.  He asked me where my ticket was.  I'm so used to showing up at an airport and entering my frequent flyer number that I told him I didn't have a ticket.  

He asked me if I had it on my phone.  I pulled out the flip phone I was borrowing from another monk.  He noted, "Well, you won't have it on there."  I admitted, "This isn't even my phone.  I'm borrowing this just so I'd have a phone on this trip."  He asked me, "How can you not have a phone?"  I explained, "I live in an area with no cell phone signal."  He asked, "Where's that?"  I told him, "Big Sur, on the California coast."  

He printed my ticket to Albany to see my brother and his family, and the ticket back to Manhattan.  As I struggled to arrange my coffee, muffin, train tickets, backpack and rolling luggage, he wondered aloud, "How will you manage all that?"  I was able to negotiate it all and navigate my way due to his merciful, kind, caring nature.  Before I walked off, I thanked him for being patient with me amidst my disorganization.  

Let Us Forget Ourselves So We Can Love More

We learn how to love from those who have gone before us.  Mother Teresa said, "It is not how much we do, but how much love we put in the doing."  Saint Teresa of Calcutta continued, "It is not how much we give, but how much love is put in the giving."  At times I've considered what it looks like when much love is put in the giving.  I've also wondered how we know how much love we're putting into what we're giving.  

Recently I realized that the answer to these questions had been given decades ago.  In high school my classmates and I learned about putting love into what one does.  One day we were taught that hungry, vanquished Confederate soldiers were treated kindly by a victor in the Civil War.  Looking at the defeated southerners, the northerner told those under his command, "Get these men food and blankets."   

Love your enemies.*  Do good to those who hate you,** who want to kill you.  If your enemy is hungry, feed him.***  Even when you've just supposedly won a war, tenderly treat the person in front of you, who is in dire need.  See the broken individuals in front of you and treat their wounds, filling them up with what they need.  Love your neighbors**** in such a way so they are sure of your love.  

In history class in high school, we heard of this merciful combatant of the Civil War.  As our United States History teacher, Mr. Bill Street, related the tale of this compassionate member of the Union Army, he conveyed the story with such emotion that his voice broke.  As he told us of the clemency shown to the beaten Confederates, he showed us his profound concern for his fellow humans as he nearly began weeping.  

Mr. Bill Street will weep no more.  Earlier this month he passed away.  As I have remembered him, again came the memory of the compassion shown by the apparent victor in war.  Once again I was struck with how our much beloved history teacher told us that story with love, such that he not only felt deeply as he recounted it, but he went further, sharing his tender feelings with us.  He let us see his vulnerability.  

As we make ourselves more vulnerable, we show more love.  The less concerned we are with how we look, then the less we think unnecessarily about ourselves, and the more we turn our attention to our neighbor.  As we forget ourselves, we put more love into what we give.  Selflessness yields love.  When we die to ourselves, we are born into love as we live for our neighbor.  As we die, we are born into new life.  

* Matthew 5:44; Luke 6:27 

** Luke 6:27 

*** Proverbs 25:21; Romans 12:20 

**** Leviticus 19:18; Matthew 22:39; Mark 12:31; Luke 10:27; Romans 13:9; Galatians 5:14 

Enjoying The Lyrid Meteor Shower Under Humbling Monastic Skies

Last night the Lyrid meteor shower was expected to peak around 10:30 p.m.  A little after 10 p.m., I headed out of my cell to see if I could spot any shooting stars.  As I was closing the gate to the garden of my cell, I looked up and saw a meteor streaking across the sky.  Given the narrow bit of sky that's in range of sight from that path between the rows of monastic cells, I figured something like, "Wow, if I saw one right away, in that small bit of sky, maybe there are a lot of them."  

I continued and went off the path, and in the direction of the driveway.  After a couple hundred feet, I stopped and looked up.  The sky was quite clear.  As I was standing there facing the firmament, I considered that we're tiny human beings, on only one planet, orbiting a relatively small star amidst hundreds of billions of stars in our galaxy, amongst hundreds of billions of galaxies.  Recalling our insignificance, the challenges we face are brought into perspective.

Witnessing the unfathomably large expanse above, I witnessed a meteor racing through the darkness.  As is the case the vast majority of the time, it streaked out and disappeared.  However, it called to mind a previous instance when I was watching a meteor shower and a dot suddenly appeared, not moving, but getting much brighter, and then suddenly winking out.  Back then I realized that what I had seen was a meteor heading right at me.

Recalling that memory of merciful deliverance from utter annihilation, once again I received several nourishing reminders.  Whatever we are presently enduring, it could be worse.  Right now the coronavirus threatens our physical health, is killing some of us, putting others of us in intensive care units, depriving us of financial income, and restricting us from traveling.  Yet, thanks be to God, a giant meteor has not hurtled into our atmosphere and wreaked widespread carnage.  Earlier this year there were multiple instances when very large meteors came relatively close to us but sped by with no physical impacts.

However, if we so choose, we can let these reminders of our littleness, fragility and precariousness have significant spiritual impacts upon us.  We can welcome these messengers from the wider realm of the universe so that they may teach us humility.  If they help us to be humble, then we can take a further step and turn toward God.  If we meditate on these matters, we can come to find that, in the midst of what we currently see as misfortune, we have limitless reason to thank, adore and praise God.  Amen.